


I Found Love While Dreaming (Of Meteor Showers)

by Zoey101



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-02-15 13:10:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13031820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoey101/pseuds/Zoey101
Summary: Her eyes never left his however. “What happened to your lip?”“I fell,” he lied.A little girl like her wouldn’t understand.***“What happened to your lip?” he asked, sweeping the blood away.Clarke looked at him with defeat, her shoulders lifting in a halfhearted shrug. “I fell,” she lied.He cocked his head ever so slightly to the side, raising a doubtful eyebrow. “No you didn’t, princess.”





	1. Meteor Showers

__

Eyes grow heavy but steadily we pull through  
Fires in heaven begin to fall for you  
Sending sparks across the sky  
Like the sparkles in your eyes, so blue  
If I survive another night  
Tomorrow I'll lie here again with you

Meteor Showers by Andy Kong.

***

**14 Years Ago:**

He could taste the blood. It had this distinct taste that, by now, he was accustomed to. Metallic and a little salty, always warm when it filled his mouth. It mixed with his spit, splattering the ground where it left the slash in his lip. The metallic taste lingered. He hated when it lingered.

Around him lay the shattered pieces of the ceramic flower pot. The flowers had gone months ago, but it brought him and his sister comfort knowing that a part of his mother still remained in the garden, a place she had loved so dearly. 

Funny how when she died, the garden died too.

The thirteen year old reached out to grab a piece of the wreck, allowing his fingers to run over the jagged edges. He could feel his skin slicing beneath it, though it didn't hurt nearly as badly as it did to breathe. A cut to the finger was nothing.

“Get up, Bellamy.” 

The voice and the man belonging to it was no longer angry. Simply diminished. 

“Please.” 

Swallowing the urge to cry, Bellamy chewed at the side of his lip that hadn't been split open. “I’d rather not,” he choked out. “I’m fine where I am.”

Hearing his father sigh and feeling his body being turned over with the toe of his work boot the boy defiantly closed his eyes. He managed to suck in a searing breath, his ribs protesting the movement.

“Open your eyes, kid.” 

He reluctantly did what he was told. 

Samuel Blake’s gaze was a mix of marshy green and dark amber, searing Bellamy’s skin whether they were anger filled or not. Everything burned now. His bruises, his lungs, his whole world. 

Around Samuel’s mouth was a forest of black brittle hairs that were beginning to show signs of greying. Whether it be from stress or heartache didn't matter to Bellamy. The dim porch light casted a heavy shadow over the man. His father wasn't a man with emotion, merely a monster. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, straightening his figure. The motion made him look like a tower, and even though the man wasn't overly tall, it still made Bellamy feel tiny. “But I won’t be disobeyed. When I ask for the dishes to be washed before I get home, I expect them to be, ok? I refuse to live in filth.”

Bellamy almost laughed, but held back. They already lived in filth. Dirty dishes was only the beginning. “Yes, Sir.” 

His father muttered something, too low to hear, shaking his head slowly. “Clean up this mess,” he ordered, eyeing the scattered remains of the flower box around his son.”And clean up yourself. I can’t have that goddamn teacher snooping around again.”

Bellamy sniffed in the frosty night air, refusing to look his father in the eye. 

“I’m going to the bar.” 

Bellamy’s eyelids fluttered shut once more when he finally heard the screen door slam shut. He could hear the truck pulling out of the gravel driveway, the unforgettable diesel humming in the far distance as the car crunched rocks underneath its tires. 

After a long minute all that could be heard was the wind rustling through the forest that lined the backyard. Some may have considered the sound eery, like ghosts wailing their sorrows and threats from their hidings. 

But to Bellamy, it was one if the best sounds in the world. 

The sound of the screen door opening once more caught the boys attention, his eyes opening to find a frightened little girl standing in the doorway. 

Her dark brown hair was intertwined into messy braids, framing her small face as tears welled in her eyes. “He’s gone,” she whispered quietly, walking towards her brother before crouching down beside him. 

He took her tentatively by the hand, hoisting himself up into seating position and leaning their emotionally drained bodies up against the side of their small brick house. “I know.”

Her green eyed gaze fell to his lip, brow furrowing. “You’re bleeding,” she announced, sounding not scared but rather defeated. 

“It’ll stop.” He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his threadbare shirt. Looking down he noticed the thin, red trail that lined the cream cotton. He shouldn't have done that. Blood was hard to wash out. 

“Which?” his sister spoke, sounding the smallest she had ever sounded. “The bleeding or dad hurting you?”

He didn't answer, instead Bellamy’s eyes fell upon his sister, taking in the six year old. She’d seen too much for a kid too young. His attempts at sheltering her hadn't worked, even despite his best attempts. 

His fingers laced themselves through hers, her small clutching tightly at his much larger. He had wished so hard to to give her more than this, more than the two years of desolation she had tried and failed to bloom through. 

She deserved better, she deserved the world.

Through his knotted black curls Bellamy looked up at the night sky and sighed. 

He couldn't answer her simple question. 

_Whenever you want to talk, just look up at the stars. That’s where I’ll be._ His mothers last words to him echoed in his ears, never would they ever leave him. Bellamy looked up at the night sky, needing his mother more than anything. But the sky was starless, nothing but a stretch of grey, dull clouds lined the pitch black canvas with the luminescent white moon conveniently peeking out, mocking him almost, through a small gap. 

There was no stars and there was no mom.

A tug at his sleeve brought him crashing back down to Earth. 

“What are you looking for?” 

“Nothing,” he replied, bitter. He felt bad immediately after. It wasn't her fault. 

Bellamy ducked his head, catching a glimpse of his sisters skinny arm, though it wasn't her thinness that had startled him. Instead, it was the formation of dark blue bruises that surrounded her wrist, on show only now that her sleeve had risen up. They lay in stark contrast to her pale skin, leaving him amazed that he hadn't spotted it sooner.

“Octavia,” he spoke gently, bringing her arm closer to his eyes to inspect it further. His vision was poor. Maybe he needed glasses. It was too bad they couldn't afford them. But he knew the exact bruises all too well, the way his father would hold him too tightly whenever he wanted something from him. But he’d never seen them on his sister. 

Octavia looked up at him and he saw the panic in her eyes, the way her breath suddenly hitched and her bottom lip found itself in between her crooked teeth.

His tone turned serious. “Did he do this to you?”

He didn't need to wait for the answer. He already knew it.

Anger began to bubble inside of him. The violence towards himself was nothing new, but knowing that his father had even dared lay a finger on his baby sister was the final straw. “O, you promised me that if he ever hurt you, that you’d tell me.”

“He didn't mean it,” she whispered on the verge of tears, rising to her feet when Bellamy did so. “I left one of my barbies out and he stood on it. It hurt his foot.”

“I don’t care.” He took his sisters hand and lead them into the living room. 

The house was an absolute mess even though Bellamy had tried his hardest to make it comfortable, like it had been when their mother was alive. Empty beer cans lined almost every free surface of countertop, and the smell of cigarette smoke was ultimately overwhelming. The TV was playing some kind of annoying cartoon Octavia was occasionally allowed to watch, while stained carpet line every inch of floor space. The house wasn't a home anymore. Not like it use to be.

A plan formulated and with luck his father wouldn't be home for hours. 

Bellamy quickly guided Octavia into their shared bedroom, ordering her to pack everything necessary for a runaway. 

“Bell, we can’t,” his sister urged, tugging at the back of his shirt in order to make him stop. “He’ll get mad.” 

The boy emptied both of their rucksacks, watching as crumbled paper, cheap stationary and second hand workbooks scattered onto the ground before them. “We won’t be here when he gets mad.”

A small tear ran down Octavia’s cheek before she wiped it away and nodded. 

She was brave but he could tell she was absolutely terrified and on the inside, he was too. He couldn't show it though. He needed to be strong for his sister, for himself.

“Ok then,” Bellamy spoke, walking towards the chest of drawers and emptying the majority of the clothes he found inside into their rucksacks. “Quickly, O. Get as much as you can inside. Don’t worry about folding.”

Bellamy began to do the same, shoving clothes and toiletries into his bag before throwing the fully stuffed rucksack into the living room. 

In a hurried motion he opened the draw of his nightstand and pried open the secret compartment that was hidden inside. A small slip of paper, their only family album, a tattered copy of _The Iliad_ and his life savings, $56, all inside.

He tucked the paper and money into his back pocket, shoved the books under the crook of his right arm then turned to look at his sister. 

She stood there, her backpack slung off one shoulder as she gripped her two barbies tightly. She was six and in a perfect world six year olds didn't need to runaway from home. But this wasn't a perfect world. Far from it, in fact.

“All set?” 

She nodded.

“Alright then.” He at least tried for a reassuring smile. “Come on.” 

He took her hand, picked up his own backpack and lead her through the front door. 

“Say goodbye to the house,” he whispered softly, giving his sisters shoulder a light nudge. 

“Bye house,” she mumbled, and then they were gone, disappearing into the brisk night air and the darkness that accompanied it.

There was only one destination of Bellamy’s mind.

He knew they’d be safe there, that when they got there this nightmare would finally be over. He’d been playing a game with his father ever since his mother died, and only now did Bellamy he actually think he had a chance of winning. 

“Bell, where are we going?” he heard his sister ask through a yawn. They’d been walking for an hour now and as if in a chain reaction, Bellamy began to yawn too. The effects of tonight finally beginning to weigh them both down.

He reached inside of his back pocket and produced the piece of paper he was so adamant would change both of their lives for the better. “23 Georgetown Terrace,” he spoke confidently. “We’ll be safe there.”

“You sure?” 

He hummed. “Positive.”

And as the minutes further dragged on as they stalked the streets, those grey clouds that hid the stars parted. It started to rain. The water was like freezing cold icy bullets exploding on their skin. Their hair beginning to stick to their foreheads as it became increasingly harder to locate their way through unfamiliar streets. But the houses began to change, so he knew they were heading in the right direction. No longer were they small, shabby and rundown bungalows but were now practically mansions, some of which multiple stories in height. Each had immaculate gardens with freshly mowed lawns, all looking slightly intimidating to two kids from the disadvantaged side of town. 

Neither of them were use to this.

“These houses are huge,” Octavia announced in awe as she looked left to right, her words delivered through shivered lips as she pulled her coat closer around her drenched body. “Bell, we don't know anyone around here. Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

Bellamy was about to answer before spotting the luminescent street lamp and the sign beneath it. _Georgetown Terrace._

Bellamy chewed his lip, reopening the wound. The metallic taste was back, but this time he didn't care. “Yeah.”

They strode down the street, gaining on the house they had been looking for all night. To Bellamy, the house looked like heaven on earth. The two-storey well-lit manor was white, the garden green. One of those cliche tire swings hung from the sycamore tree in the yard, swaying softly in the harsher wind. 

“We’re here, O. We’re gonna be fine.” 

For a while they just stood on the sidewalk, trying to make themselves look a little more presentable. Bellamy pushed his overgrown hair out of his eyes, looking down to watch Octavia do the same. 

Then, finally, they built up the courage to climb the path and steps to the front porch.

In slow, deliberate movements Bellamy pulled the album and _The Iliad_ out from under his shirt, the only way he could've kept them dry in the hostile winter weather, and tucked them back under the crook of his arm. He felt his sister squeeze his hand, an indication that she was both absolutely freezing and impatient — she couldn't wait anymore. 

He only watched as she lifted her tiny fist and banged three times of the mahogany front door. “You were taking too long,” Octavia muttered, before fear once again etched onto her brow when a few seconds later footsteps was heard through the heavy wood.

It swung open, revealing a little girl. 

She looked around Octavia’s age, around the same height too. Cropped blonde curls sprouted from her head, swinging still form the sheer force she had used to open the door. Her eyes were a vibrant bright blue, shining under the hallway lights of the parlour behind her. She was clad in a knee length, crisp white nightdress. The epitome of a little princess. 

After thorough inspection of his little sister her attention turned to him. “Who are you?” Her tone showed no hint of suspicion just interest. 

“I’m Bellamy,” he announced, then nodding at his sister. “This is Octavia.” 

Her eyes never left his however. “What happened to your lip?” 

“I fell,” he lied.

A little girl like her wouldn’t understand. 

She raised a perfect little eyebrow, opening her mouth to denounce his claim when a familiar, mortified voice cut her off. 

“Clarke! What are you doing?” 

A hand reached out and dragged her back from the doorway, fearing the worst. 

“You don't open the door without-,” the man started but the words died on his lips as he took in the two shivering children on his doorstep, one of whom he knew very well. “Bellamy,” the man spoke, taking in the young boys state. He was looking for an explanation, though obviously didn't need one.

The man turned to his daughter. “Go to bed, Clarke.”

The youngster pouted. “What? No. I want to stay.”

One pointed look from her father and she groaned, stomping up the staircase before disappearing from view down the dark hallway leading from the landing. 

“You said,” Bellamy began when the man turned back towards him, “that if things ever got bad at home, that we could come here. That you’d help us.”

Clarke’s father rubbed slowly at his stubble before crouching down in front of them both, even if it made his stance smaller than necessarily needed. He nodded once, looking at Octavia then back to his student. 

“Mr Griffin, can we stay here?”

***

**Present Day:**

The cafe was a little busier than normal, though not crammed. The hustle and bustle of families, couples and friends conversing over cups of coffee and brunch always brought Bellamy this odd sense of comfort. He could probably sit here for hours, crammed into the corner booth of his favourite cafe while he sipped contently at his latte and basked in the environment. 

But he had work to do. Lessons to plan, essays to mark. 

Chewing unconsciously at the end of his pen and with his nose deep in some mediocre essay Bellamy hadn't even heard a new customer come in. It wasn't until the word, “Declined,” rang out did his attention drift. 

He looked up and frowned, prying at the scene in front of him. 

A blonde woman, back turned, rummaged desperately through her purse, at her side a young boy, no older than the age of five. The cashier stood at the other side of the counter, his fingers tapping impatiently on the till. 

“Try this one,” the blonde tried, thrusting another credit card in the cashiers direction. Her voice sounded oddly familiar. Gruff, though seemingly shaken.

Eyebrows lifting the teenager swiped it, shoulders slouching once more as he shook his head. “Declined.” 

The woman let out something that almost resembled a sob as her shaky hand reached back for the card. “Forget it then,” she murmured defeatedly. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Bellamy knew the situation all too well from his younger years. Times when he had struggled to scrounge up just a few dollars to buy a packet of pasta and a can of tomatoes for a simple meal for his sister and himself.

“I’ll pay,” he announced suddenly, rising from his chair and reaching for his wallet. An orange juice and a ham sandwich was nothing. 

Her blonde curls swung as she turned, and instantly those bright blue eyes bore into his. He didn't remember the heavy shadows marring her skin, nor the plumpness and busted tissue of her lower lip. But he remembered those eyes, vibrant still but diminished slightly. 

“Clarke?”

If she recognised him too she didn't say anything, she didn't even acknowledge his question.

“Thank you,” she whispered, taking the $20 from his grip. Her sweatshirt rode up, searing purple bruises that clung to her wrist suddenly evident. Her gaze faltered, falling to the floor as she handed the note over. 

He tried again. “Clarke,” he spoke softly. “It’s me. It’s Bellamy.”

She grabbed at the sandwich and drink and handed them to the boy, eyes darting quickly to the door, up to him, then back to the door. “I’m sorry. You’ve got the wrong person.” 

He knew that he hadn’t. 

Her hand wrapped tightly around the boys, dragging him towards the open door before Bellamy even had the chance to follow.

“Mama,” the boy tugged back in retaliation as they thundered through the doorway. “That man knows your name.” 

“Shut it, Isaac,” was the last thing he heard her say before they were gone, lost in the crowds of the bustling city. 

***

 

He didn't want to be here. He’d rather be at home, a bowl of popcorn and a good documentary all he really needed for a decent Saturday night. Yes, he was a nerd. No, he didn't mind.

But it was Murphy’s bachelor party and in all honesty, there was no way in hell he would miss this. Murphy even having a girlfriend was a big step for the guy, and now he was having a bachelor party. The little delinquent had surprised him. John Murphy and commitment didn't really go hand in hand.

Bellamy’s jean pocket was full of dollar bills that he gifted to the dancers around him every couple of minutes, and while this wasn't really his thing he at least tried to be interested. 

Guys and girls, one after the other approached him eagerly, asking him if he wanted a private dance in those dingy little rooms in the back. Each time he politely declined. Again, this wasn't really his thing. 

Everyone else seemed to be having fun though. A dancer had caught the eye of Miller, his friend basically giving the guy all of his money just so he wouldn't leave and Murphy, well it looked like Murphy didn't ever want to leave either. 

Bellamy though, he just wasn't feeling it.

But there was this one dancer, clad in a ruby red wig and navy blue lingerie uncertainly approaching him that caught his full attention. All the other performers were far more confident, knowing exactly what they wanted when they flirted for his wallet. This girl though mumbled the question under her breath as if the words were choking her. 

“Can I interest you in a dance?”

She’d been forced into this, and looking over her shoulder he discovered by who — a brunette man dressed in a fancy suit, her boss perhaps, was staring her down expectedly. It looked as though she had been trying to avoid just this table in particular and had been caught out. This was her punishment. Asking him that question was her punishment.

His heart dropped when she looked up at him through eyelashes too long and thick to be real, suddenly being met with blue.

It was Clarke.

She waited patiently.

He didn't want her disappearing again. 

“Yeah,” he swallowed, handing over every note he had in his pockets and wallet combined. “You can.”

***

“Clarke,” he sighed, running his fingers through his already tousled hair as she tried to push him down onto the chair in the dark and musty private room. 

“My name is Crystal,” she argued, succeeding as he slumped down onto the solid wood. 

She was shaking though, terrifyingly so. 

“Calm down,” he whispered gently to her. “I don't want you to dance. Can we just talk?”

She sighed a shaky breath of release, stepping towards him. “We’re being filmed. It’s protocol,” she spoke softly, chewing at her lip until of bubble of red erupted through the healing skin. “I have to at least sit on your lap.”

Surprisingly, when he answered he didn't stutter. “Ok,” he swallowed thickly. 

She gifted him a shaky, sultry smile, though it was entirely for the camera, and soon enough her legs were over his, her hands coming to rest on his tensed shoulders. In her eyes he could see something crack, eyes welling with shame and tears.

“What are you doing here, Clarke?” he queried, his hands laying limp at his sides. 

“It’s Crystal,” she gritted out, thrusting her hips once.

He groaned, hating it.

“Getting by,” she finally answered quietly, eyes never meeting his.

Judging by their meeting the other week, it was a lie.

“How’s Octavia?” she asked meekly.

“She’s good.”

Clarke nodded, which was followed by silence.

Bellamy broke it. “The boy?”

“Isaac, my son.”

Bellamy clicked his tongue. 

“He’s not yours.” 

She read his mind. She had the tendency to do that.

When his left hand raised unexpectedly he could've swore he saw her flinch. 

“What happened to your lip?” he asked, sweeping the blood away. 

Clarke looked at him with defeat, her shoulders lifting in a halfhearted shrug. “I fell,” she lied.

He cocked his head ever so slightly to the side, raising a doubtful eyebrow. “No you didn’t, princess.”

And just like that, every single wall inside her collapsed, shoulders shaking and eyes streaming hot tears with the inflicted pain of the innocent nickname being used after all these years. 

“You can’t call me that anymore.” She climbed off of him, adjusting her garter. “I’m not who I used to be.”

“Clarke,” he stood, heartbroken. He watched as her hand reached out to pull back the velvet curtain. He tried again, a little firmer this time. “Clarke.”

“Go home, Bellamy.” She glanced over her shoulder, wiping her mascara run cheeks with both hands and sucking in copious amounts of the thick air around them. “And stop calling me Clarke.”


	2. Hello My Old Heart

***

**14 Years Ago:**

Bellamy chewed gingerly at the corner of his buttered piece of toast, seemingly threatened by the blue eyed child glaring at him across the breakfast table. 

Overnight her curls had become excessively tangled, tangles in which she pushed behind her ears whenever they fell from their purchase. She said nothing, conveyed nothing. With a determined hand she reached for a carton of orange juice, the other reaching for her glass. Eyes fixated on him she didn't even focus the task at hand, though miraculously poured the juice into the glassware without spilling a drop. When she had finished she lifted it to her lips, staring him down further.

“Clarke, stop,” her father called from the kitchen, laughing. “You’re freaking Bellamy out.”

The kid almost choked on her orange juice, joining in on her father’s laughter as she broke her hard stare. She grinned at him, bright, light and lively. “Sorry, Bell.” 

The thirteen year old raised an eyebrow at the nickname, huffing under his breath. He didn't smile. He didn't laugh.

“What?” her pouted lips asked the question. “I can’t call you that?”

“My sister calls me that,” Bellamy grumbled back in response before taking another bite from his toast. Then, a little softer after he had swallowed. “My mom use to call me that.” 

Scrunching up her little nose she seemed to be taking in his words, contemplating them. “That doesn't answer my question.”

He didn't answer her. He took another bite from his toast. 

“Can I call you that?” she persisted.

Bellamy shrugged a singular shoulder, shaking his head and swallowing. 

Lips and nose twitching she ran a finger along the rim of her glass. “Like, ever?” 

He got the vibe that a lot of people never really told her no. A princess.

“Maybe, if you’re lucky,” he supplied, hopefully fulfilling her need to know. 

For just a few seconds after that everything was silent. Well, not exactly silent. The TV was projecting some morning show while the sound of sizzling bacon came from the kitchen. It was all sort of uncomfortably peaceful. 

Clarke unknowingly broke his discomfort. 

“What happened to your mom?” 

From the kitchen her father sighed. “Clarke…”

“No, it’s ok,” Bellamy interrupted, swallowing a lump that threatened to form in his throat. He stared at the youngster opposite him. Kids were curious. 

“She died.”

“How?” The question seemed like a challenge. 

Bellamy wasn't backing down. “She killed herself.”

There was sudden tension in the room, the kid possibly believing that he wouldn't answer that one. 

Neither of their eyes trailed to any other focal point except one another. They stared.

He noticed in that tense moment that Clarke breathed only from her mouth. A mouth breather. Perhaps her nose was too upturned to function properly. She let out these short breaths, chest rising and falling every couple of seconds. Though, despite everything, she didn't seemed to be breathing like that because she was frightened.

The observation stopped when they were both startled by the joining of Jake Griffin’s determined hands. A singular clap had thinned the thickness in the air. “Right.” 

They both turned their heads towards the kitchen. Clarke quick in the motion, timid. Bellamy just a little slower, deliberate.

“Why don't you go wake up Octavia, Clarke? Go see if she wants breakfast.”

Sparing one final look at the boy the young girl slid from her chair and doing as she was told, she disappeared upstairs. 

Bellamy’s teacher took a deep breath, leaning against the kitchen counter with both hands gripping the sides of the white marble. “She’s eight, Bellamy.”

The thirteen year old exhaled, slouching back in his chair. His sliced fingers picked at his breakfast, no longer hungry. Tiny crumbs wedged themselves into the open wounds. It stung. 

“Octavia’s six,” he replied firmly. “She knows.”

He was bitter. Bitter that Clarke lived in a perfect bubble of a world and in a perfect bubble of a house. 

Of course he should've been grateful. He was safe now. Authorities had been notified. But with all those teenage hormones coursing through his body he couldn't help it. Things just got a little hard sometimes. Sometimes to feel alive the kid felt the need to crash and burn. 

“You’re trying to protect her, Mr Griffin.”

Said man slid into the chair his daughter had occupied just moments before. 

“But you can’t do that forever. One way or another this fucked up world is gonna get to her.”

Days later, CPS took them away. 

Years later, Bellamy never could've imagined the truth behind those words.

***

**Present Day:**

Bellamy pounded heavily on the forest green door of apartment number 35, his actions feverish. On the verge of a breakdown all he could do was this, pray that his sister was home and not at Lincoln’s. By the time he realised she obviously wasn’t, he had been methodically knocking for a straight two minutes, honestly surprised none of her rather questionable neighbours had appeared.

Begrudgingly accepting defeat the motion of his fist ceased, falling slowly to his side. 

“Bellamy?” 

Gina.

He turned only his head towards her, taking in her seemingly worried state.

“She’s not here,” she spoke softly in that soothing voice of hers, taking a small step towards him. “She went with Lincoln and his family to their cabin in Vermont for the weekend, remember?” 

Bellamy exhaled the pent-up air he didn't know his lungs were holding. Somehow, despite Octavia’s vast excitement and rapid rambling about the getaway, the entire trip seemed to have slipped his mind. His thoughts were preoccupied, his heart beating too fast. 

“You been drinking?” she whispered, gentle and coaxing smile on her pale pink lips.

He shook his head in response, letting it drop. 

Bellamy hadn't touched a drop of alcohol in that club, and still, he managed to get himself kicked out. He had caused emotional distress to a dancer. He had caused a scene. The things he had seen in the private room with Clarke, the things he had seen trying to get her to talk to him after she had left - he didn't like. And he wanted it to be known.

Clarke left and he followed, calling her name, her fake name as she seemed to want no affiliation with the other. When she neared the backstage door she was halted, pulled viciously by the forearm. The brunette man in the suit was the culprit. 

Clarke had flinched, either his grip was too hard or she hadn't wished to be in his company. Maybe it was both. 

“Do you know him?” he had asked her, voice firm while a guard held Bellamy back. 

She had shook her head, seemingly certain in her answer. 

“Words, Crystal.” 

Bellamy had seethed with anger towards the man who hadn't yet spoken to him directly. 

“Use your words.” 

Clarke took in one of those shuddering breaths she apparently did often and sighed her answer. “No, Mr Wallace. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

The man seemed to have bought it. 

“I want him gone.”

And they were gone.

She was gone. 

Again.

Gina’s hand reached out, shattering his relapse into the events of the night.

Chewing at his lip Bellamy took it, allowing himself to be guided further down the hall where Gina’s apartment was situated. 

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going?” she asked him later, voice not demanding in the slightest. 

The thing was, Gina was a soft summer breeze. Refreshing and beautiful in so many different ways. She was so gentle, her personality so blissfully attractive. Her eyes were deep like his own, her auburn hair curly, lively when she danced around the kitchen when she got into one of those goofy moods. 

One hand on his knee and the other wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate, she stared. But her shade of brown wasn't quite so menacing as someone else’s shade of blue. 

Gina brought him peace. And he liked peace, he really did. 

“I found Clarke.” 

Blinking, her gaze faltered. Something had clicked within her. 

Gina was a smart woman and under different circumstances, Bellamy really believed that he could've loved her the way she deserved to be loved. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered under his shaky breath. He meant it. 

She squeezed his knee, giving him a tightlipped smile. “I know,” she replied back even softer, hand falling from its original placement. 

Bellamy might’ve liked peace... 

But he craved chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Hi. Hey. 
> 
> Sorry this chapter is pathetically short compared to my first. WRITER’S BLOCK HAS OVERTAKEN MY WHOLE LIFE.
> 
> Despite this, I hope you enjoyed this lil update. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!! 
> 
> Endless love, 
> 
> Zoey.


	3. Anywhere But Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING AHEAD: 
> 
> This chapter delves deeper into Clarke’s present. Domestic abuse and darker topics ahead. Pre-warning.

Clarke blinked languidly, exhausted still from the events of the night prior. Her head was pounding, her eyelids demanding to be closed once more. She fought it, keeping them open. 

She knew it was coming. She knew someone from her life prior was bound to have found her back in the place she had ran from. A place tainted with memories, the good and the bad. She just wished it hadn’t been Bellamy. He didn't deserve to see her like that, like this.

The bedroom door creaked gently open, a sliver of piercing morning light suddenly illuminating the dim lit room. A brunette floppy haired boy peeked his head through, smiling when he saw that his mother was awake. 

Next to her a body groaned in retaliation to the disturbance, their arm which once burned and weighed down her side loosening as they turned away. 

Clarke brought a finger to her lips and the kid nodded, understanding. 

They both waited in silence for the familiar dragging of heavy breaths indicating they were in the clear. They came roughly a minute later. 

The blonde let out a stiff sigh, quietly pulling back the duvet. Despite the excessive size of the mattress, the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets and the heavenly softness of the pillows — the bed was an uncomfortable one. One main reason being it was a shared space. A space where possession was practiced. 

“Good morning my beautiful boy,” Clarke whispered, leaning down to kiss the crown of her sons head after she had closed the door. “ How are you this morning?”

The tiled flooring was cold beneath her bare feet, but she wouldn't dare go back in and grab some socks from the dresser. The move was too risky. 

“Hungry,” the boy smiled up at his mother, wrapping his little arms tightly around her bare legs. 

Clarke took his hand in hers, leading them away from the heavy white door and the man that slept behind it. It was better to leave him be. They knew not to disturb him before nine o’clock on the weekend.

“Blueberry pancakes?” the child asked with a hopeful gaze, pulling her hand a little harder when he saw a promising smile on his mothers busted lips. 

Clarke laughed breathlessly and nodded, succumbing to Isaac’s excitement as she allowed herself to be guided down the staircase. It was hard not to smile when the promise of pancakes made a kid so happy. 

Despite everything, despite the pain — she was eternally grateful for one thing that Cage Wallace gifted her, and that was a son. Her son. The four year old’s smile made her days a little brighter, his granite grey eyes making her nights a little less despicable. He was so effortlessly loveable, so beautifully content with just the simple things in life. 

Sat upon the kitchen counter he played with his hot wheels, zooming them in, out and around various measuring cups, cartons of eggs and kitchen utensils, seemingly oblivious to the affectionate gaze his mother was giving him. 

“Mama,” the boy announced when he finally looked up, noting her lack of movement. “Those pancakes aren't going to make themselves.”

“Right.” Faking a flustered exterior she exhaled quickly, breathlessly. “I’m terribly sorry Mr Isaac. It will not happen again.” She stumbled her way towards the double doored fridge, flinging both open dramatically as she carried on her tedious journey towards the making of the requested meal. “Sir,” she wailed. “I cannot find the blueberries!” 

She spared a quick look over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow, spotting her son grinning, lips stained purple. 

“Thief,” she pointed an accusing finger in the boys direction. “I call thief!”

She swooped towards him and he burst into a fit of giggles as she tickled his sides. 

Clarke ceased when she deemed the laughter too loud, shushing him with a soft smile. 

“You’re so silly, Mama.”

Clarke grinned at the child, leaning in to plant a firm kiss on his blushing cheek.

Everything she did was to make him laugh. Three simple things made the day seem not so daunting in those early mornings, Isaac’s smile, Isaac’s eyes and most importantly, Isaac’s laugh. 

Isaac might’ve had the exact shade of dark brown hair like his father, might’ve had the same nose, might’ve had Cage’s blood running through him. But she thanked heavens for those three distinct features he possessed. They kept her centred when all she wanted to do was fly away.

***

Cage trudged down the staircase an hour later, groggy and grumpy like every other morning. He ruffled Isaac’s hair as he passed him by on the couch, their son pulling away to dodge the everyday movement. 

He complained about it daily, though never to his father. 

Clarke looked up when he slid into the kitchen stool, hands tapping impatiently on the recently cleaned, marble counter top.

“Hey,” she murmured softly, timid. “Coffee?” 

Cage nodded, running one hand through his hair while the other scrolled slowly across his ridiculously expensive newest model of some phone she couldn't even pronounce the name of. 

He didn't look at her, didn't speak to her. 

She’d have to wait.

Clarke did what she was told, brewing the coffee to just the right temperature, pouring the liquid into his preferred mug. She knew he’d be hungry too, so quickly made him a batch of _plain_ pancakes, drenched heavily in maple syrup and topped with banana. 

Hesitantly Clarke pushed the plate and cup in front of him when she was done, holding her breath.

A heavy thud echoed through the kitchen, the expensive phone being placed downwards on the countertop. Clarke’s eyes fluttered shut in reaction, bracing herself for the possible backlash. 

“You remembered.” 

Eyes opening, she found herself staring at Cage’s infuriatingly sly smirk. 

“About the blueberries,” he clarified, beginning to cut into the stack, seemingly satisfied.

“Oh.” Clarke plastered a fake smile on her lips. “Right.” 

Of course she remembered. Cage didn't like blueberries in his pancakes. A big bruised acted as a reminder. It’s not like she could blame him though, he had told her before. It had just slipped her flustered mind. 

“Thanks babe.” 

The blonde nodded with a quiet sigh, so utterly relieved. “It’s nothing.”

The kitchen was clean, her morning jobs were all done. 

“We’re going out for lunch,” Cage announced after a period of prolonged silence. “To my fathers.”

Clarke liked Dante. Clarke could handle Dante.

“Ok. I’ll go get Isaac ready,” she murmured softly in reply, but as she turned to walk away a hand around hers pulled her back. 

She unceremoniously fell into Cage’s awaiting arms, that smirk just inches away from her face. His fingers pressed tightly into the flesh covering her hipbones, grip tighter than necessarily needed. “Forgetting something?” 

Cage didn't move. He liked giving her orders and making her work hard to complete them. 

Leaning in, Clarke brushed her lips against his awaiting pout. His breath was sour, a mix of maple syrup, coffee and morning. Despite this, she pursued. Never would he be satisfied with just a simple kiss. Her hand lifted, her fingers brushing into the hair at the nape of his neck as she deepened the kiss. 

She pulled back when his fingers slipped underneath her sleep shirt. 

“Isaac,” she breathed, voice shaky. 

Cage looked over her shoulder quickly, gaze snapping quickly back to her own. “Isn’t paying attention.” He gifted her a low, predatory growl and pulled her lips back towards his own. 

She didn't fight back, allowing him to continue. It was for the best. 

He stood, leaning down to wrap his hands around the underside of her thighs. Cage lifted her up, dropping her firmly onto the edge of the counter. If he saw her wince he didn't say anything. 

Tears threatened to slip freely down her cheeks. She fought hard to keep them at bay. Instead, she tried focussing on the back of her sons head. He was watching cartoons, she kept reminding herself, he was oblivious.

“I’d like to be able to tell him some news, Clarke.” He sucked at her neck. The blood vessels broke beneath his lips. More bruises.

“I’ll go take one,” she promised, hands against his ribs as she tried to push him away. “Ok?” 

Cage relented, freely letting her slip from her perch. “Ok.”

Clarke nodded.

She should've known he wouldn't let her get away that easily. 

“I’m coming with you.” 

***

A shaky hand took the last stick from the box, tearing the packet away with slow, deliberate movements. 

“We don’t have all day.”

Nodding, Clarke edged her way towards the toilet, underwear pooling around her ankles. 

“You nervous?” Cage asked her when nothing happened, breathlessly laughing. “Stage fright?”

Forcing a smile, she nodded. 

“I’ll turn around.” 

So he did. 

The minutes passed in silence. 

Then, when it was time, she showed him the result. 

One line. _Not pregnant._

Cage’s hopeful face fell, brow furrowing. “I’m going to contact a clinic.” 

Her heart starting beating visibly within her chest cavity, her breath catching. “Why?” 

“Why?” Cage questioned, mocking her. “Because it’s been six months.”

“We’ll keep trying.”

There was something in his eyes that made her take a step backwards. He had that effect on her. 

Luckily, he left without saying anything, the stick still in his grasp, door slamming shut behind him.

A staggered breath left her lips when she was alone, hands gripping the porcelain sink with a white knuckled grip. When she looked up a scared little girl was staring back at her in the mirror. She was so incredibly pale, so incredibly terrified. 

In a moment of weakness she thought about ceasing the interference. 

The moment passed. 

She pulled open the door of the cabinet beneath the sink, rummaging through the medicine box that was kept beneath there. In a cold and flu packet, hidden behind the PVC piping, concealed the reason all those pregnancy tests returned negative. 

Clarke swallowed the contraceptive pill quickly, placing the package back in hurried haste when she heard movement outside. 

Isaac was Clarke’s greatest treasure. 

He was Cage’s too. 

And despite the amount of love they both showed that child, Clarke couldn't bare the thought of raising another child in such a hostile environment. 

So not pregnant she stayed, not pregnant she wished to remain.

***

Clarke laid in bed that night, limbs sore, chest tight. 

Whenever she had trouble sleeping, heart rate too fast to attempt rest, she thought about her past. She thought about the good memories, the ones that, even for only a few minutes, delved her into a cloud of reminiscent happiness. 

Sometimes, when times were really rough, she’d imagine the arm wrapped around her waist wasn't Cage’s. 

“I need you to work tomorrow.” 

One way or another, the relapse into the memories crashed. 

“Ok."

Years ago, when the arm did actually belong to another, Clarke would trail her fingertips against the warm skin. The person that belonged to it always taking it as a sign to hold her closer. 

Clarke would fall asleep, blissed out in the memory of those peaceful nights. 

She’d always wake up disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! 
> 
> Comments and kudos are my greatest encouragement.


	4. Cover Me Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A BACKGROUND CHAPTER. 
> 
> I HOPE YOU LIKE IT.

If someone were to tell Bellamy, at the age of thirteen, that he would eventually fall in love with Clarke Griffin, he probably would've laughed, questioning their mental while he was doubled over. Clarke, at that time, was nothing more than an annoying little kid. Prissy, lively, asking far too many questions he couldn't always answer. She was a friend for his little sister. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

But as Samuel Blake was tossed behind the walls of a high security prison, and the Griffin’s (more so Jake than Abby) graciously decided it was best if the Blake children were to be fostered by them, not thrown into state care where they would certainly separated — Clarke kind of grew on him. 

Don’t get him wrong, it was a definite gradual, slow and steady transition. 

***

It was summer. Clarke was ten and he was fifteen. And there was one thing that pissed him off most about the little blonde haired girl he lived with; she was the only one who could beat him at chess. 

“Check mate.” Gleaming, Clarke popped the last syllable, emphasising her infuriating strategic win. “Just admit it, Bellamy, I am the queen of chess. You shall bow down before me. Kiss the ground at my feet.” 

Bellamy’s eyes rolled in a familiar way, pushing his newly bought black framed glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. “I will do no such thing.”

“Such a shame,” said Clarke, rising from her chair. 

“Woah, where are you going? I demand a redo. Your win was a fluke.”

“Oh really,” she laughed, bubbly and bright. It was her laugh that eventually got to him when he mustered up the courage to tell her how felt, though that would be years in the future. Now though, she was just infuriating and cocky. Nothing to make him explicitly love her as much as he would. “As were the seven times before that, right?”

“Right,” he nodded, already setting up the pieces back onto the board. He was determined to crush her winning streak reign. 

She wasn't having it. “I have art class.”

“Screw art class, chess is more important.” 

After much deliberation, she sat down and played another game.

She won. 

Again.

***

Almost two years later, Bellamy was seventeen, now sporting a much hated moustache, and clearing up the living room when he stumbled across a book. Well, not a book. A journal. Clarke’s journal. 

He knew Clarke loved art and that she took classes. He knew she won awards and that she was very secretive about it. Like, overwhelmingly secretive. Finding her journal like that was like finding a ten pound gold nugget in an open field. 

It didn't happen.

He noticed that it was worn, frayed ribbons struggling to keep the bulky item closed. The feeling was kind of surreal, like cracking open a secret he knew he wasn't meant to know. Thrilling yet oddly terrifying. 

Upon the delicate unwrapping of the ribbon, he was met with breathtakingly rugged beauty. Sketches of anything, of everything, of everyone. Jake reading in his favourite armchair by the fireplace, Abby dozing on the porch swing out the front, Octavia doing her homework at the dining room table, and him. 

He was doing, well, he was doing a lot of things. Watching a documentary, making a banana smoothie, playing video games with Murphy, washing his truck on the front lawn. And seemingly the most disturbing among the vast mundane…him making out with this guy from school, Jones, under the Sycamore tree in the side yard. 

Bird’s eye view. More rushed than the rest. As he analysed it further, he suddenly understood as to why the angle was such an awkward one. Why this one was far more sketchier than the rest.

Clarke was in the goddamn tree, watching from above as he and Jones shamelessly let all their teenage hormones take ahold of their urges. Satisfying them in ways far too inappropriate for an audience of Clarke’s age. 

“Bellamy!” The book was snatched quickly from his hands, being forcefully shut with an echoing thud. “What the hell are you doing?”

Breathless and now shaking slightly, he recoiled. “I could ask you the same thing.”

From the way that she visibly swallowed, head tilting ever so slightly downwards, he knew that she knew what he was referring to. She tried ignoring it. “Don’t go through my stuff.” 

He wasn't going to let her. “Don’t spy on me when I’m with someone. It’s not a goddamn live show.” 

That seemingly angered her, breathing heavily through her flared nostrils. “I wasn't spying on you,” she gritted out, huffing. “I was in the tree long before you decided it’d be a good place to hookup. And judging by th-the…” she began stuttering, struggling the right word, “the velocity of how things progressed, I highly doubt you would've heard me anyway.”

“Jesus, Clarke.” He felt dirty, awkward and embarrassed, the thought of her watching the entire thing making him shudder. Running his hand through his hair, he sighed, closing his eyes in an attempt to shut out the thought of it all. 

“I’m sorry, ok?” she now sounded heartbreakingly diminished.

When he opened his eyes again, he found Clarke staring at him in a way that wasn't exactly normal for her. She looked as though she was holding something back, brow furrowed, chewing excessively at her lip. Something was up. Clarke wasn't known for holding back. 

“What?” he asked, voice conveying just a hint of a demanding tone. He was still quite disturbed about the whole ordeal, not really wanting to look her in the eye. It was as if their relationship had lost its innocence. 

“A-“ her voice caught. Clearing it, she tried again. “Are you gay?”

Bellamy sighed. He wasn't doing this now, unprepared to give her detailed answer. A simple, “No,” was all he gave her before walking away. 

Mere seconds later he heard her reply, shouting it down the hallway so it bounced off of nearly every wall in the vicinity. “I think I’m bi.” 

“That’s great, Clarke,” he replied back, voice a little softer this time. He couldn't yell at her for that. 

Ascending the stairs two at a time he had just neared the top, when her voice called out once more. 

“Is that what you are, too?” 

He didn't answer her direct question, ignoring her. 

It apparently didn't stop her. “Well, whatever you are…you’d be far more attractive without a moustache. The thing kinda freaks me out.”

“How riveting,” Bellamy murmured to just himself, slamming his bedroom door shut behind him. 

Those were the times Clarke was considered as annoying, much like a little sister who pushed boundaries and kind of freaked him out with her need for knowledge. 

But there were other times too…times in which he knew Clarke considered him as not just someone she lived with, but rather a friend. Perhaps even a best one. Someone she could trust. 

Wholeheartedly. 

***

Bellamy was freshly twenty one, studying at a nearby college. Just months prior he had moved out the Griffin household, renting a two bedroom apartment with Murphy just ten minutes from campus, twenty minutes from the Griffin’s. Everything, so far, was seemingly idyllic. Almost too perfect. 

It was eleven o’clock on halloween night. He and his friends had thrown a party, the environment pretty wild. They were college students. It was to be expected. Alcohol. Costumes. Thumping music. Sweat. Hook-ups. The whole nine yards.

For some reason however, he didn't know why, but Bellamy felt the need to steer clear from it all, taking only a singular shot to give him a small buzz, nothing he couldn't control. It was as if he knew something ought to happen tonight.

In his back pocket, ringtone barely audible above the racket, his phone began to ring. 

Something happened. It was Octavia.

“O.” He answered, blocking one ear in order to hear her better. “What’s up?” 

There was similar musical and conversational disturbance coming from her end of the line as well. 

It unnerved him. 

She was at a party. 

She wasn't meant to be at a party. 

Clarke and her were meant to be at Fox’s, watching scary movies like they promised they were going to. Like they had told everyone. 

It was obviously a lie. Of course they were lying. 

“Bell,” she cried, voice wavering.

He instantly yelled for everyone to shut up, the music ceasing immediately after. 

“What?” he demanded, breathless. “What’s wrong?” 

“Clarke’s gone.” She was choking on her own terror. “Her purse is here. Her phone, too. But she’s not.” 

Instantly his heart plummeted, his knees wobbling. “What do you mean gone?”

“I mean gone, Bellamy,” she so helplessly reiterated. “The party we were at together, I am now at alone,” sighing, “I’m scared, Bell.” 

He was searching for his keys, getting frustrated when he couldn't locate them instantly. “When did you see her last?” Mumbling, “Someone find my fucking keys,” to the eerily silent group around him. 

“She was talking to this boy,” his sister replied, trying to calm herself but ultimately failing. “I went to the bathroom, came back and they had disappeared. This was like, twenty minutes ago. I’ve checked outside and every room in this goddamn house. She’s not here”

“Was the guy older?” His keys were flung to him from the other side of the room, catching them millimetres from his face. 

“Yes.”

“Did he have a car?” Bellamy almost tripped down the stairs he was running down. 

“Probably.”

“Has she been drinking?”

“Yes.” 

“A lot?” he asked, scared of the looming answer.

“Yeah,” his sister breathed. “More than she usually does.”

“Fuck,” Bellamy smashed at his steering wheel as he climbed into his truck. He took a deep breath, struggling to calm himself. “Have you been drinking, too?” 

Her response was a little slower this time, a little quieter too. “Yes.” 

“Give me the address,” Bellamy demanded, twisting the keys with sheer determination until the engine of his truck roared to life. “Now!” 

***

Octavia was pacing the cobbled driveway, twisting her devil thorned headband between her fingers when Bellamy pulled up. Mascara had streaked her red-splotched face, her lip trembling excessively as she ran towards him. “I’m sorry,” she buried her face into his jacket once he had emerged from the vehicle, falling limp. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Hey.” He held her close for only a few seconds, pushing her back when he deemed they were wasting time. “We’ll find her,” he nodded, promising. “Ok?” 

But he wasn't promising, not really. He was hoping, begging, praying. He couldn't promise anything.

His sister seemed satisfied though, swallowing and nodding. “Ok.”

Bellamy led her back inside, starting immediately to grill people about who this mystery guy was, about where they could've possibly gone. Not surprisingly however, no one was telling him anything. They were drunk, they were having a good time, they couldn't wrap their tiny, little heads around the severity of the situation.

“Sh-should we call the police?” Octavia asked him, wide eyed and frightened. They had nothing to go by, no vital information. By all means, Clarke might've left freely. 

Bellamy sighed, rubbing at his stubble. He was about to answer, about to succumb to his own terrified state when his sister suddenly tugged at his arm, pointing to the front door hallway. 

“That’s him,” Octavia announced in a rush of breath. “He was with Clarke.” 

The guy, Bellamy noticed, was now very much alone. 

“Where is she?” Bellamy was on him in a second flat, pushing him up against a nearby wall. “Where the fuck is she?” 

The teenager was taller than him, though much more gangly. His arms and legs were twigs. Bellamy could take him easily in a fight if worse came to worst. 

“Who?” He was acting dumb, his voice was deep though quivering slightly, seemingly caught off guard.

Nostrils flaring, Bellamy clenched this guy’s collar in one hand, lifting his other in a tight fist. A warning. 

The answer came shorty after, a release of pent up terror. “Henley Park.” 

Bellamy punched him anyway. 

***

“Stay in the truck,” Bellamy demanded, opening his own door. Octavia began to argue, he shot her a glare. “Stay in the truck.”

She silenced, obeying. 

Henley Park wasn't as much as a park, but rather a large block of grass and a few scattered trees. It was hardly illuminated, just three streetlight’s lining the pathway that cut through it. Bare and nothing, eery under the full moon night. 

Bellamy could hear the noise of nearby Halloween Parties in the suburbs surrounding, though it brought no ease to the discomfort he felt entering the place. Ominous. 

“Clarke?” he called out, the sound carried away in the wind. He tried a little louder. “Clarke?”

He took a step forward, away from the light and into the darkness, hearing a sniffle. 

“Bellamy,” a croaked voice murmured back, breath hitching.

But he couldn't see her. It was too dark. Not enough light. 

“Where are you?” and immediately, just mere seconds after asking, a pair of arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, her nose digging deep into his clavicle. Strong arms kept here, trying now to shelter her from the cruel world they lived in.

She was blubbering, hysterically crying. And all Bellamy wanted to do was cry with her.

He couldn’t, though. He was a rock, someone steady she could grip onto.

Instead, he buried his fingers into her hair, swaying her softly in the cool night air. “Did he hurt you?” he whispered, pulling her closer when her knees buckled. 

He could feel her shaking her head, gasping for breath. 

It wasn't enough. “Promise me, Clarke.” 

It took a while, but eventually a promise fell from her lips. “He wanted to do things that I didn’t. I got out of the car and he drove off.” 

A sigh of relief fell from his lips. Despite the fucked up situation, it was probably one of the best outcomes. She had been lucky this time. Later in her life however, that wouldn't be the case.

“You’re ok,” he whispered in her ear when she began to start up again. “I’ve got you.”

For now? Yes. He did.

“Everything is going to be alright.” 

Forever? No. It wasn’t. 

When they finally pulled apart, Bellamy noticed something he hadn't before. A cheap, plastic crown resting precariously on her head. He reached out, prepared to fix it back into place when Clarke beat him to it. 

She grabbed at the accessory, just about ripping it from her skull, not even flinching when a clump of golden hair came with it. It hung in her hands, the pristine fake jewels shining only dimly in the moonlight. 

Her grip released, the crown falling in slow motion, bouncing once as it hit the damp grass. A shiny pink stiletto met it suddenly with force, smashing it until it no longer resembled anything regal. Seven pieces of useless plastic. 

“Take me home.” 

So he took her hand, and he did.

***

Two years later, to the exact date, Jake Griffin had a heart attack and died. The holiday had already lost its innocence. Now morbid was added to the list. 

They were all affected, though no one more than Clarke. She didn't eat, didn't talk, she seemingly couldn't function without her father. For hours she would lay in her bed, wrapped in blankets, either asleep or awake, though really it wasn't like it mattered. 

Sometimes, when coaxed, she would have a shower. And for those rare few nights, when either Bellamy or Octavia would lead her to the bathroom, she’d ask for a bath. 

Those nights she was heavily supervised. Checked on every couple of minutes to make sure that if she ever ducked her head under the warm water, she’d always bring it back up again. 

That was her life for days. Sleeping, staring, showers and baths.

They all wanted to help her, all wanted her to get over this rough period in her life. Only Bellamy , however, was the only one who could actually hold a conversation with her, who she could tolerate the most. 

Despite it being three in the afternoon, just opening the door of Clarke’s room felt as though Bellamy was stepping into midnight. The usual main source of light, the large bay window, was completely covered by heavy, thick grey curtains. No speck of sunshine was apparently allowed in such a sombre environment. 

“Clarke.” His voice was barely a whisper, barely audible.

While he didn't want to disturb her, he still checked in on her every couple hours to make sure she was still alive and well. It was the least he could do. The guy had even moved out his apartment for the time being, wanting to be closer to the family.

Bellamy took a hesitant step forward, approaching the mound of duvets and pillows Clarke was buried beneath.

“Princess.”

When he sat down on the edge of the mattress she didn't move, didn't reply and for one terrifying second…he thought she wasn't breathing. 

He reached out quickly, finding her shoulder among the covers, grasping it tentatively in his hand. Shaking it gently, then a little harder when she still didn't react. 

“Clarke.” 

And finally, thankfully, she groaned, pulling away from his touch. “Not now, Bell.”

He sighed an immense breath of relief, rubbing at his right temple. The truth was however, seeing Clarke in this state, no amount of coaxing could relieve the tension he felt within. 

“I miss him too.” 

She cracked, audibly letting the mute and stoney exterior that she had been conveying for the last three days pass, now turning to raw emotion. Clarke reached for him, peeling back her duvet just a smidgen. An invitation. 

Toeing off his boots, Bellamy climbed in, leaving a reasonable gap between them. 

“How did you do it?” she whispered softly once he had gotten comfortable. “Get over losing your mom, I mean.”

“You don't get over it, Clarke,” he stated matter-of-factly. “It just gets easier.”

Chewing at her lip, she didn't seem satisfied with his answer. 

He nudged her softly, “Hey, you’re lucky. You’ve got a whole band of people who love you, who want you to lead a happy life, a fulfilling life. I had my sister and that was it. But she was the reason I got up every morning. I learnt to be grateful for her, for the things I still had.”

She was taking every word in, blotchy blue eyes searching his. Finally, after a period of prolonged silence, she nodded. 

Bellamy smiled for the first time in a very long time. “You’re strong. You’ll get through this.” 

“Ok.”

She didn't smile back. 

That would come a month later.

***

They stood there, illuminated only by the moonlight, the gentle rhythms of the sleepy ocean lapping against their bare waists. The bright light from the rock bounced radiantly off of Clarke’s pale complexion, contrasting heavily against the murky, dark sea. Her skin was prickled by goosebumps, her body shivering slightly when the soft wind blew. It was then, when he looked closely at her lips, he realised they were upturned. She was smiling at him.

Clarke was turning eighteen. Octavia had thrown her surprise birthday party against Bellamy’s strong advisement. She was still recovering, still not ready to be faced with so many people at once. 

The blonde lasted an impressive three hours before she sought Bellamy out from the crowd. “Can we leave?” she had whispered in his ear, gripping both of his shoulders as she leaned in. 

He nodded. 

They had fled within the minute.

It was Clarke’s choice; they drove to the beach. 

He couldn't deny a birthday girl her wish. 

“You haven't done that in a while,” he spoke his mind, raking his fingers through his dripping hair until it was out of his eyes. “You look more like Clarke when you do that. When you smile. When you’re happy.” He took a deep breath, allowing himself to feel the expanse of his tight chest. “I’ve missed this Clarke.”

There was this look in her eye when she looked at him that he couldn't quite decipher, her smile falling to be replaced by the chewing of her lip. For a singular moment he thought he ruined the moment, only watching with discomfort as she did nothing but disturb the water around her with the tips of her fingers, swirling the sea without care. Then, “You make the other Clarke forget.”

He smirked, ducking his head, grateful.

Everything remained quiet for a while, the only sounds being the waves crashing onto the shoreline and the gentle whispers of the wind in Bellamy’s ears. But then the water in front of him was disturbed once more, being parted by the body of a girl.

He looked up, finding Clarke suddenly inches away from him. 

She was so close that his eyes couldn't help but map out her facial features. The beauty spot above her lip was nothing new, but now in this proximity, he noticed a strikingly matching freckle above her left eyebrow. Even more, smaller freckles sprinkling her nose. 

“You’re so pretty.” He watched her lips move, heard the announcement leaving them. It seemed as though she had been eyeing his features too. 

“And you're drunk,” he replied easily, voice travelling in the breezy air.

“You’re drunk too.” Taking one final step towards him she smiled a little brighter, the skin covering their torso’s grazing when they breathed in sync. “And later, when I’m sober, you’ll still be pretty.”

Alcohol made her honest. 

“Well then,” Bellamy simpered. “I think you're very pretty, too.”

Apparently it wasn't only her affected by the shots, the ciders and the beers. 

She blinked, slow and purposeful. Seemingly deep in thought as she dipped her fingers back into the ocean, cupping handfuls before letting them drip from her outstretched hands back to the large body they had been separated from. “I’m more than that, though,” Clarke breathed, her hands stopping mid motion. Her eyes lifted, curious. “Right? Like, you're more than just pretty to me. You’re other things too.” 

He couldn't help but grin at her drunken rambling.

“I’m more than pretty to you, yeah?” she persisted. 

They were extremely drunk, Bellamy decided. They wouldn't remember this in the morning. If by some chance she did, he definitely wouldn’t. His intoxicated mind thought it was best if he was to just continue what had already been started.

He nodded, took a shallow breath and began, “So much more.” He was finding it hard to find the right thing to say. “Like…like,” he stammered, “If Octavia wasn't around, you'd be be my whole world.”

“So, I’ll have to settle for half for the time being?”

He nodded, gaze soft. “You both mean a lot to me. You’re my family.” 

To his surprise, she frowned at that. “Do you see me as a sister?” Her tone was serious, her voice firm in demanding the answer. Truth be told, he was a little scared of her in that moment. 

“No,” he shook his head, stating it plainly. “I don’t.”

Clarke seemed satisfied with that, the crease in her brow relaxing. “Good.” 

It seemed as though he blinked and her arms were around his neck, her torso and all its joining parts pressed flush against his. When she leaned in he froze, both out of fear and just a twinge of excitement. Her breath was warm against his lips, the parting only mere millimetres away from his own. He could smell it, the alcohol. It brought everything back into perspective. 

When she leaned in just that inch closer he bowed his head and pushed against her instead, their newly conjoined foreheads creating the space he needed to control himself. “What are you doing, Clarke?”

The question was a stupid one really. He wanted an answer none the less. 

“Making the other Clarke forget just that little bit more,” she whispered, eyes closed. “Please.” That particular word seemed to choke her, the sound coming out slightly broken. 

Still, it wasn't enough. “Is it past midnight?” he asked, voice trembling ever so slightly.

A breathless laugh fell from her shivering lips. “Yes, Bell,” she spoke against his own. “I turned eighteen when we first got on the beach.” She pulled him closer, and out of instinct his hands fell to her hips. She grinned, eyelids finally fluttering open. “Besides, I’m only asking you to kiss me, not have sex with me.” 

He took a sharp inhale of the salty air, so very torn in that moment. 

Clarke could obviously see his struggle, pulling back just an inch so she could study him. “What are you so afraid of?” 

He sighed, thumbs sweeping the predominant points of her hipbones. “You said it yourself,” he announced, forcing himself to not bite his lip, ducking his gaze instead. “You’re half my world.”

“And after you kiss me, I won’t be half your world?” 

A hesitant right hand left her hip, coming to rest on her cool cheek instead as he braved himself to look directly into her stare. He felt her lean into his touch, hope in her bright blue eyes. “I’m scared,” he whispered, “you’ll become so much more.” 

Clarke furrowed her brow, thinking. “Is that so bad?” she whispered after a while, eyes darting quickly to his slack, slightly parted lips. When he didn't reply she took it upon herself to brush her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. “Kiss me.” 

The two emotions deep within that had been conflicting suddenly melted away. He was no longer fearful, no longer excited. All he had left now was need. The need to know what her lips tasted like. The need for Clarke Griffin become more than just a dream. He knew that he shouldn’t, a voice pounding in his mind repeating the same sentence over and over. _Don’t do this. Don’t do this. Don’t do this._ But his heart was beating too hard, the need silencing the doubt. 

“Happy Birthday,” he murmured. Then he kissed her.

Her lips, to his surprise, were soft, a little salty with just a hint of that peach flavoured vodka they had downed hours prior. It was meant to be gentle, a brush of the lips. Something to satisfy that need. The kiss at first was warm, but the heat rose. It turned too hot. Too quickly. 

Bellamy pulled back when he felt a hand trail down his stomach, swooping dangerously low to the waistband of his underwear. 

“We shouldn’t-,” he announced, breathless. 

Clarke recoiled almost instantly, stepping back like she had just touched a hot stove with her bare hand. Embarrassed and hurt she let out a shuddering breath. She had misunderstood.

“-be this intoxicated around large bodies of water,” he continued, smirking at her display. It was cute.

”Oh.” She smiled back at him when she had recovered, laughing gently. “Well then.” She took him by the hand, guiding him towards the shoreline. “Let’s get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then...
> 
> I’m not to sure how I feel about this chapter. Please, please, please let me know what you think. 
> 
> In all honesty though, I’m just happy it was longer than my last two. 4,532 words! A+ for my usual lack of effort.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> \- Zoey :))
> 
> (SIDENOTE: Sleepy Zoey usually accompanies C- editing skills. I'm sorry.)


	5. Heavy

“Jesus, Bellamy. Are you trying to get yourself killed?” 

Bellamy dropped his cigarette onto the asphalt, his gaze snapping upwards as he watched a somewhat furious Clarke come storming towards him, a tan coat wrapped around her usual work attire. “What?” he asked her dumbly, hiding just how glad he was to see her again.

Sighing, Clarke’s eyes lowered, as did her voice. “You’re so lucky he isn't here.”

“Who?” he asked her, frowning. “Your boss?” 

Her mouth opened to retort, leaving it hanging when the first syllable caught in her throat. Instead, her fingers slipped down the neck hole of her coat, pulling a slip of paper from her bra. “Stop sending me these.” 

She’d been getting them. The notes. He’d linger outside the club like a relative creep every night, passing off the notes to the most decent looking men entering with orders to give it to Crystal — the one in the red wig. 

“Stop ignoring them,” he breathed, brow furrowing. “Please, Clarke.”

“Bellamy, I can’t.” Her voice was firm, tone set. “Go home.” 

He matched it. “No. Talk to me.” 

The wind was beginning to pick up, her red hair sprawling across her heavily caked on face. She shivered beneath the coat, goosebumps erupting on any visible skin. Just years ago, when everything was seemingly okay, he would've wrapped her up in his arms and held her until they melted away. 

Things had changed.

Clarke’s resolve was seemingly shaken, the piece of paper crumbling within her tightfisted grip. “Not here,” she murmured finally, tucking majority of the wig behind her right ear. “Frankie’s Place. 3PM. Thursday.” 

With a sigh of relief, he gave her a lopsided smile and a quick nod. 

She didn't return it, spinning on her heel, deserting him in the carpark. 

***

Thursday couldn't have come soon enough. Bellamy arrived a full hour early and waited another two, the excitement turning to dread when she didn't show. He had no way of calling her, no way of confirming that it was this Thursday that she meant, not the next. But still he waited, hope diminishing but never fully disappearing when 4PM came and went. 

About to give up, with 4:15 nearing, he took the last sip of his second latte and stood. 

Then she walked in the door. 

Weary, just about dead on her feet, but here. “Sorry,” she spoke softly, genuinely apologetic. “I thought I said 4. But then I remembered.” With a gulp of oxygen, she inhaled oxygen she seemed to have been deriving herself of. “I thought you wouldn't have been here. I thought I was too late.” 

“You’re fine,” he smiled, warm, taking her in. He didn't even notice Clarke’s son was in tow until she was introducing him to her. 

“Isaac, this is a friend of mine. This is Bellamy.”

Bellamy was expecting a shy wave, so was therefore startled when a small outstretched hand was presented to him. He took it, obviously, leaning down slightly to get to the kid’s level.

The handshake was strong, formal and a little unnerving. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr Bellamy.” 

“It’s just Bellamy,” Clarke corrected the kid before Bellamy had the chance to do so. Her answers were a lot quicker than they use to be. Precision in the choice of words. Precision in the way in which they were delivered. 

“Dad said it’s impolite to call someone by their first name with the order to do so.” The articulate nature of Clarke’s son was astounding, considering he was only four. 

Bellamy stood, watching as Clarke’s eyelids twitched, eventually closing them when the motion was over. 

“Just Bellamy is fine,” the man announced, smiling warmly. “May I call you Isaac?”

Isaac grinned and Bellamy’s heart just about stopped. He was so similar to Clarke when he did that, eyes crinkling at the corners the same way he remembered hers doing all those years ago. 

Nodding, Isaac looked up to his mother quickly then back to him. “Yes, you may.” The child looked proud, almost as if no one had ever asked him that question before. 

“I like your jumper.” Bellamy wanted more than anything to be liked by him, by someone who knew exactly what it was like to love Clarke Griffin. 

Beaming, the child tugged at the navy polo sweater. “My Grandfather bought it for me.”

“That’s pretty cool, kid.” Clarke’s father was dead. He knew the child wasn't talking about Jake. 

Clarke’s fingers fell into her sons hair, running delicately and affectionately through his brunette locks. “Bellamy and I are going to talk, okay?”

He nodded without argument. 

She guided him towards a singular round table, getting him set up with a colouring book and quite the assortment of coloured markers. “You want anything to eat?” 

“Can I have a chocolate milkshake?” he asked her sweetly, screwing off the lid off the red marker, contemplating bringing it to the page. Then, as an afterthought, “Please and thank you.” 

With a seemingly forced smile, she guaranteed him the buy, even when Bellamy protested. “No.” She stilled his hand when he reached for his wallet at the counter. “I’m more than capable of paying for a milkshake and a cup of tea.” 

Bellamy was thinking back to the time last week, a time when she couldn’t. But true to her word, she swiped the card and it was accepted. 

She could obliviously see the surprise in his eyes. “I have the money today, Bellamy.” Her tone was accusing. “I can pay today.” 

So she did. With Isaac sipping happily at his milkshake and Bellamy waiting for his third latte to cool, it began. The meeting, the confrontation, the saving of his best friend. 

Things were running smoothly in the beginning. But then lighthearted, seemingly safe conversation turned just a hint of deadly when he asked her about the money situation, something she obviously was trying to avoid.

“I’d already spent my allowance for the week, ok? It was a Sunday, I get my allowance every Monday. You caught me at a bad time last week.” 

The words were flowing so easily from her mouth that it almost startled him. Allowance? She was a twenty two year old woman, not some nine year old that got pocket money for doing chores around the house. 

“Who’s giving you an allowance? he asked her softly, stirring his latte with his teaspoon, the soft clink of metal hitting glass seemingly distracting her. He slowed when he noticed her gaze, tapped the spoon twice on the lip of the cup before placing it down against the table. “If you don't mind me asking.” 

She looked down at her own cup, tearing the teabag tag into strips. “Cage,” she mumbled.

“Cage?” Bellamy managed to speak in an acceptable tone, though still outraged. He knew that name. “Cage Wallace? Your boss?“

She nodded. 

“Clarke, he’s meant to give you wages, not allowances.” 

“Fuck, Bellamy,” Clarke spoke up, suddenly snapping, though lowering her voice when she remembered where they were and that her son was nearby. She’d been keeping everything in, letting it build up slowly, painfully. “Isaac’s last name isn't Griffin, alright? Cage Wallace, Isaac Wallace. Cage isn't just my employer…he’s Isaac’s father.”

Bellamy’s heartbeat faltered, the organ itself dropping deep down into the pit of his stomach. Cage Wallace, to his current knowledge, was in his late thirties. Clarke was eighteen when she had Isaac. The thought disheartened him. 

“I don’t get paid like an average employee because I’m not one. Cage and I have a joint account, and my wage goes in there. It might not be ideal, but I cope. And I do that because my son gets a roof over his head, food on his plate, everything he needs, and anything he wants, all the while getting to attend one of the best preschools in the state. I want what is best for him, okay? If it means I have to live off an allowance, then I’ll do it.”

Bellamy had no way to reply to the statement, utterly aghast. 

She could see his discomfort, the way his deep brown eyes mapped out every inch of her face seemingly searching for the logic behind her explanation. 

“So Cage is what exactly?” he choked out. “Just Isaac’s father, or…more than that?”

Her hand lifted upwards, rubbing wearily at her eyes. “No. He’s…” she began, obviously struggling to come up with the definition of their relationship. Eventually, after much deliberation, she sighed. “I don't know.”

“How can you not know?” Bellamy pressed, shaking his head, confused more than anything. “You’re either together or you're not, Clarke. Obviously you live with him, but do you sleep with him? Not sex wise. Like, bed wise. Do you share a bed? Y-,” he took a deep breath, calming himself for a second. “Your sex life is none of my business.”

Clarke stared at him, a hint of bemusement in her eyes. “To be honest with you, Bellamy,” she spoke, voice timid. “I don't think any of this is your business.”

And at that point in time, all Bellamy wanted to do was cry. 

“It is,” he stated plainly, barely keeping it together. “Because for the last four years I’ve had no idea where my best friend is. Now I do. But she’s not the same girl I remembered her to be. She’s in trouble.” He took a shuddering breath. “And I owe it to her father to save her, like he saved me.”

Though Bellamy might’ve been keeping it together, in no means was Clarke. Her lower lip began to tremble, only stopping when she lifted it with her thumb, pressing her fist to her mouth. 

“Please,” Bellamy he breathed, reaching across the table to gently hold the hand that her mouth hadn't occupied. “Let me save you.” 

Her shattered gaze fell to where their hands meet, and for just a second it looked as though she was contemplating the offer. 

The second passed, her hand recoiling.

“I don’t need saving. My life is fine.” 

Bellamy realised at that particular moment that this wasn't Clarke he was talking to. It was the shell of the girl who use to be. When Clarke was a twelve year old she had a free spirit, her mind open to allow her own thoughts and opinions to develop naturally, influenced by no one. Merely ten years later and her mind was trapped, guarded. Twenty two year old Clarke had been brainwashed. 

“You really believe that?” he asked her, now thoroughly analysing every thing she did, every move she made. 

There was no hint of apprehension when she lifted her head to hold his stare. “Yeah, I do.”

From where his right hand rested on the table Bellamy lifted his index finger, tapping three times on the oak wood. Quickly those pair of blue shot to the action, following the quick beat, before finding their way back to his brown. 

“Clarke, why is it that you’re wearing a long sleeved shirt in the middle of summer?” 

Her hands quickly fell to her lap, hidden from view. 

“And why is it that when you lifted your hand away from your mouth just seconds ago, I saw blood?”

Her shoulders slouched, face falling, fingers tentatively rising to touch at the split. 

“Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not,” she tried, diminished. “No one in the house hurts me, ok? There was an incident at work-“ 

“The club,” Bellamy spoke, hating that the word sounded bitter. 

The shame evident on Clarke’s face was back again. “Yes.”

“Do you like working there?” His question was a genuine one. That night at the club she had looked utterly miserable, the question was one he already knew the answer to.

From the time it took for her to reply, her answer was obviously a dishonest one. “Yes.” 

“Theses incidents at work,” Bellamy pursued. “Do they happen a lot?” 

“No.” 

He sighed, defeated, knowing full well that every word that was coming out of her lips was a lie, a coverup for the truth. The approach wasn't working and Bellamy was growing tired of her brainwashed responses. He needed the real Clarke, the one that wasn't afraid to tell the truth, even with the consequences that followed. 

Licking his lips, Bellamy decided upon his masterplan. “Clarke, look at me.” 

She hadn't done that fully, with eye contact, since they entered this little cafe. 

Accepting the challenge, Clarke forced her chin to stop trembling, and lifted her gaze. Blue on brown, she forced herself to hold it. 

He found it necessary to continue. “Tell me that you’re fine, that you’re happy, that no one is hurting you at home and I promise, cross my heart and hope to goddamn die — that I will never bother you on the matter again. That I’ll leave you alone. For good.” 

Clarke’s mouth hung open as she breathed, eyes darting to survey her son. Tears trickled down her heavily concealed cheeks, the walls that were holding her up collapsing slowly around her. “Don’t do that, Bell,” she whispered and he knew that he had done it. His best friend was back. 

“Why?” Despite this, he wasn't yet satisfied.

Her eyes fluttered shut, chin trembling, her tears splattering against the tabletop. “Don’t,” she whispered, broken. “Don’t make me say it.” 

When he took her hand this time, she didn't pull away. “You’re hurting, Clarke.” 

His best friend stared back at him, her impeccable blue eyes highlighted by the glossy nature of the tears that made her gaze glassy. Nodding, she squeezed at his flesh and immediately he took it as a sign to hold it firmer, more securely. “Yeah Bell,” she announced, truthfully. The first truth of the day. “I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was short, as is my attention span when it comes to writing. Sorry for any mistakes. I’m currently a dead girl walking. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> This kept getting taken down for some reason. 
> 
> Hopefully it will stay this time.
> 
> Please let me know what you think. :)))))))


End file.
